


Meeting Dublin

by luxover



Category: American Idol RPF, David Cook (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal comes home from the tattoo parlor, it’s to the sound of a dog barking—a little, yippy one—and for a second he thinks he’s in the wrong house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Dublin

When Neal comes home from the tattoo parlor, it’s to the sound of a dog barking—a little, yippy one—and for a second he thinks he’s in the wrong house. He looks around, but no—that’s his couch, and his coffee table, and that’s his gigantic dog and those are his guitars and so he must have imagined it. 

Only then Dave walks in, and he’s carrying this tiny rat-dog, and it’s squeaking and making all those other fucking noises that little dogs make, and Neal thinks,  _oh_ , because at least he’s not crazy, and then,  _well, fuck,_  because that dog’s annoying him already.

“Neal!” Dave says. “You’re home!”

“Yeah,” Neal says. “What the fuck is that?” He motions to the dog Dave’s holding.

“This is Dublin,” David states, like that tells Neal anything.

“Okay,” Neal says slowly. “Who are we watching Dublin for?”

David looks confused for a second, his eyebrows all furrowed as he tugs on his lower lip with his teeth, and for a second Neal thinks that’s really fucking hot, and then he realizes what’s going on.

“No,” Neal says. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” He waves his hands about. “No. Not in my house,  _no_.”

“Technically,” Dave says, and he looks slightly apologetic. “Technically it’s  _our_  house.”

Neal shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We already have our work cut out for us with Sixx; I don’t even know what the fuck we’ll do when Sixx eats your little girl dog.”

“Well, he’s not a little girl dog, and it’s not like I can take him back,” David says. “So he’s just going to have to stay here. Be the victim of a disagreeable household.”

“Fuck you,” Neal says, and he doesn’t mean it viciously or anything, but Dave bought a fucking dog without even talking to him, and so he’s a little bit ticked off, yeah. It almost makes up for it, though, getting to watch Dave introduce Sixx to the new dog; Sixx growls and absolutely hates the thing.

 _Right the fuck on,_  Neal thinks. He raised his dog right.

That night, they don’t sleep back-to-chest and Neal doesn’t offer to help when Dublin starts whining in the next room. And Neal doesn’t  _forget_  to tell Dave about his new tattoo, not exactly, but he’s not going to do it when they’re fighting or when they’re sort of angry or when everything is even a little bit less than perfect, because that’s not why he got it done. He didn’t get it done as a bargaining chip, something to just show off as a magic cure-all that would make the wrinkles in Dave’s forehead and at the corner of his mouth disappear.

 

“Here,” Neal says. “I got you something.” He plunks a big box down on the table and it’s wrapped real nicely, clearly done by some woman at a store, but Neal doesn’t fucking care because that’s not the point. “Well, really, it’s from us—me and Sixx. You know, to welcome Dublin into the family.”

Dave smiles and bends down to pick up Dublin. Neal thinks that’s pretty humiliating, having to be manhandled and not being able to say shit about it. Sixx would never let someone move him wherever they wanted without reason, but then again, Mr. Sixx has dignity and David’s little dog doesn’t.

“Knew you’d come around,” David says, and Neal just nods. “Well, come on, Dubs. Let’s open this box.” And Neal thinks that the sheer act of buying a dog must have turned Dave into an eight-year-old or like, a woman or something, because he’s using a goddamn baby voice and Neal thinks that’s disgusting.

So Dave opens the box and inside is a bright pink pet carrier purse. Neal thinks it’s perfect; David does not.

“Are you kidding me?” Dave asks. Neal can’t keep the smile off his face.

“What?” he shouts to Dave’s back as Dave—and Dublin—walks away. “I thought that’s what you were supposed to get for those kinds of dogs!”

David just flips him off, and Neal considers it a victory.

 

The next day, it’s just Neal because Dave has some meeting or something, and Neal has no problem just kicking it with Sixx and watching the Horror Channel. Only now  _kicking it with Sixx_  really means  _kicking it with Sixx plus one_ , and Neal’s not too hot on that, not really. And it’s not that he hates little dogs, because he doesn’t—they’re whatever—but he hates  _owning_  little dogs, and how they squeak and how he’s always fucking tripping on them, and how they think it’s cool to just hop up on couches and shit when big dogs—dogs like Sixx—seem to know instinctively that that ain’t right.

So maybe Neal toys with the idea of just giving Dublin to someone else, but in the end he doesn’t and that’s really what matters. Neal figures he should get a fantastic fucking blowjob for that alone, but he can’t exactly tell David that he  _considered_  getting rid of Dublin; Dave would only hear that first part and not the part about how Neal didn’t do it, and then Neal would have to sleep on the couch.

So Neal goes to find Dublin because it’s a commercial and Dublin’s not where Neal left him, and he’s a puppy and if he’s chewing up all of Dave’s shoes, well, serves him right. Only Dublin’s not in Dave’s closet and he’s not in the kitchen and he’s not even chewing up the furniture, so Neal gets a little worried. If he loses Dave’s dog, he’ll never hear the end of it.

Any relief that he could have possibly felt upon finding Dublin is cancelled out, null and void, when he sees Mr. Sixx cuddling with the little, furry piece of  _ruining my life._  And he thought they were a team, him and Sixx, and so all Neal can think of to do is shoot Sixx the nastiest glare he can muster and say, “Traitor.”

 

Dave’s got his hand on Neal’s clothed hip. He says, “Come on, Neal,” and it’s at the point where everything in Neal’s body is telling him,  _His hand is close, so close_ , and,  _Just give in, just do it_ , but Neal can’t be that guy; his pride won’t let him.

“I still don’t fucking want him,” Neal says, and then they don’t talk for a while, not until after they’ve fallen asleep and woken up the next morning.

David says, “If you still hate him in a week, I have a friend who will take him in.”

Neal says, “Good. Tell them to buy lots of fucking Advil,” and Dave’s face falls.

 

Neal hates the big gesture. He hates the big gesture, and he hates romance, and he hates flowers and candy and holding doors and all that bullshit. But Dave likes that kind of stuff, likes to be surprised, and Neal has not once hated doing any of it for him, and so Neal figures that has to say something about Dave and about them and about everything.

Neal had gone out and he got David’s name tattooed on his body, right on his lower belly where the skin is soft and where there’s nothing to distract, just white skin and light hair, and he did it because he’s a little bitch like that and because he knows that it’ll mean a lot to David.

He meant to tell him right away because it’s not a  _secret_ , not at all, but then the Dublin thing happened and Neal just never found the time, the  _right_  time. Only it’s been a couple of days now, and they’re never by themselves, not with the fucking puppy around, and so Neal has to wait til Dave leaves the house to sit on the floor and take out his Tattoo Goo from under the bed and slather it on. The tattoo’s plain and there’s nothing special to it, just a couple of letters strung together in a row, but when it’s on his skin it labels him,  _Taken_ , and so it does its job and that’s all Neal really needs.

Mr. Sixx has his big, fat head resting on Neal’s knee and he’s looking at the tattoo, too, probably figuring out how to slobber on it and lick off the Goo when Neal’s not looking. Neal says, “It’s a surprise, Sixx, a big fucking surprise that he’ll go batshit over, so you better not rat me out.” Sixx just looks at him and then at the ink, and Neal knows his dog is smart, knows that his dog understands everything that’s going on.

Dave’s not supposed to be back yet, not for another hour, so when Dublin freaks out and does his little yippy bark, Neal jumps about four feet in the air, smoothes shirt back down and tosses the Tattoo Goo under the bed. David walks in the room not a minute later.

“What are you doing on the floor?” he asks as he throws his jacket in the direction of the closet.

“Man time with Sixx,” Neal bullshits.

“Oh yeah?” Dave asks, but he’s not really looking for an answer.

Dublin walks over by Neal and Neal snakes a hand out and pulls Dublin onto his lap. He figures he owes him one.

“Dublin, too,” he says, and when Dave looks over, Neal’s sandwiched between Sixx and Dublin, and David’s smile is bright enough to light up the whole room.

 

Later, Neal shows David and David just stares, wide-eyed, and runs his fingers over Neal’s skin. There’s a movie playing in the background and David says, “I can’t believe you…” and then he trails off, doesn’t even finish his sentence.

Neal asks, “Do you like it?” and David just says, “I fucking love it,” and kisses him slow and sweet, one hand palm-down on Neal’s tummy. Sixx is there and Dublin is there and Neal thinks,  _Yeah. Okay, yeah._


End file.
